


Dante

by scrub456



Series: Reversal [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF John Watson, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, John Watson Whump, POV John Watson, Reichenbach Angst, Reverse Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6325516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"John." Both Holmes brothers spoke his name at the same time, drawing him from his thoughtful contemplation; Sherlock via mobile, Mycroft by ear piece.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" Sherlock pleaded.</i>
</p><p>  <i>"It's time John. Plan 'Dante' is in place..."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dante

**Author's Note:**

> This is a new universe, separate from all of my other works. I haven't abandoned any of them, but this idea has been kind of working itself out for about a year and a half now, and it was just time I guess... after two months of relative radio silence.
> 
> This story does contain several bomb blasts, and I offer my apologies to anyone that may be affected negatively.
> 
> ********
> 
> My heart is broken for, and my prayers are with, our friends in Belgium. Know you are not standing alone.

Mycroft Holmes did not care for John Watson. John Watson was well aware of that fact.

To be honest, the feeling was mutual.

What kind of man tried to pay his brother's flatmate to spy on him? If Sherlock was cold and unfeeling, Mycroft was a glacier. And pompous. Though he accused John of being a distraction to Sherlock, Mycroft was largely responsible for introducing Sherlock into nearly every life threatening situation that John actually knew of. How many others were there?

Then there was this. The level of insanity of the scene before John's eyes was infuriating. And this was _all_ Mycroft.

Sherlock was perched on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew's rooftop, leaving John to assume that the scenario had played out as Mycroft had supposed it would, and that Moriarty was dead. John knew that also meant Moriarty's men were lying in wait, ready to launch strikes against Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and himself. A chill ran down his spine as he could feel the sniper rifle trained on the back of his head.

Sherlock was oblivious to the fact that John knew what was next. He was ready to plunge from the rooftop, onto the inflated bag, and John was to play the part of devastated best friend. At least, that's what Sherlock thought came next. The real "next" was far more complicated, and dangerous, and comprised a deception so grand, John Watson hated himself for his role in it.

And he hated Mycroft Holmes for constructing it.

"John." Both Holmes brothers spoke his name at the same time, drawing him from his thoughtful contemplation; Sherlock via mobile, Mycroft by ear piece. 

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" Sherlock pleaded.

"It's time John. Plan 'Dante' is in place... If you fail to comply with the plan, you will not only risk your own life, but Sherlock will be in the gravest of danger. We wouldn't want that, now would we?" Mycroft's tone was both threatening and condescending. John was torn, he had agreed to Mycroft's plan for one reason: Sherlock. But he feared what his involvement would do to his friend. He wanted to scream at Mycroft, but he couldn't even respond without Sherlock hearing him.

And Sherlock. He was on that rooftop, struggling at attempted sentiment. John could hear it in his voice, but could only respond with dull, dimwitted pleas of "No!" and "Don't!" He wanted to tell Sherlock what was about to happen, to tell him not to worry, but could do nothing of the sort with Mycroft Holmes in his head.

"Brace yourself, John." It was the kindest thing Mycroft had ever done for John. Barely had the words crackled through the ear piece than the first blast detonated. Despite knowing it was coming, John's military experience took over, and he dove to the ground, covering his head for protection.

"Really, John? Pathetic," Mycroft mocked.

"Where are you, you little..."

"Ah ah ah, John, Sherlock could hear you. Get his attention. Convince him to meet you in the building. Use whatever means necessary. You have to make sure he gets out safely. The next blast is set to go off in two minutes. Go in after that. I will keep contact with you." John tried to focus on Mycroft's rambling, but his gaze was pulled to the rooftop when he heard what had to be Sherlock cry his name. He saw his friend peering over the edge of the building and then collapse out of sight. If that blast had injured Sherlock, Mycroft would pay dearly. Even if it killed him, John would make sure Mycroft would pay.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you okay? Sherlock!" John stood up slowly, shouting into the phone, begging Sherlock to pick up. What was taking so long? Anger coursed through John as he considered charging into the building before the next blast.

"J... J-john..." Sherlock stammered.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me? There was an explosion. Did you see where it came from? I can't see anything from down here!" And so the lies began. John watched as Sherlock moved to step back onto the ledge. What was that idiot doing? Just as John opened his mouth to caution Sherlock, Mycroft's voice crackled, "Bombs away." John watched helplessly as the second blast threw Sherlock backwards.

"John, the explosions are inside the hospital!"

"I can see the smoke now. I’m coming in there!"

"John, drop the phone and get in that building. Now," Mycroft demanded.

John, covered the mouth piece of his mobile, and in an act of defiance that threatened to ruin the whole plan, responded to Mycroft. "I am going. But I will not leave the phone."

"You must."

"No. It was a gift."

"I have ways to persuade you."

"John, don't be an idiot! Stay where you are, I'm coming down," Sherlock shouted through the phone.

Placing the receiver to his ear, John responded, "Sherlock, you know as well as I do that you're going to look for the source of the explosion before the fire services arrive and destroy the evidence. I'm coming in there so you don't get yourself killed! Besides..." John's sentence was cut short as a man on a bicycle clipped him, causing John to stumble back and his phone to skitter across the ground. Mycroft had left out that little detail of the "Lazarus" plan. "Oh brilliant, Mycroft. Thank you so much."

"Would you _please_ just go into the building, we are running out of time. Everyone is cleared out except the actors you are supposed to save. We can't have them killed for real, now can we?" 

John hesitated. Mycroft was right. The deception had begun, but now lives actually depended on him. He glanced to the rooftop to make certain that Sherlock was watching, and then ran full clip into the hospital.

Somehow, using all of his connections, Mycroft had arranged for a delay in the fire and rescue response. John didn't care how it happened, just so long as he could get Sherlock and the others out of the building and to safety. Mycroft had tempted him with hero status, medals and commendations. John, in turn, had threatened to punch him in the face. John made his way up the main stairwell, as billows of thick, hot, black smoke flooded the building. This was crazy. Where was Sherlock?

"By the way, Molly Hooper was in on 'Lazarus.' She may need extraction as well," Mycroft chirped.

"Fantastic." John growled. He pushed a little harder against the burning in his lungs to get to Sherlock. As he turned onto the next flight, he nearly collided with someone.

"Sherlock! Have you heard from Molly? I didn't see her below. Should we help her?" John gasped, realizing the effect the smoke and flights of steps were having on his ability to breathe. John watched as the realization of imminent danger for his co-conspirator dawned on Sherlock. Sherlock looked to the stairwell, and John knew Sherlock had a plan. Good. When Sherlock had a plan John knew he could trust him without fail.

"Help! Help, medic? We need a medic over here!" A nurse emerged from the smoky hallway, she was covered in ash and a seeping gash crossed her forehead.

"Are either of you medics? We have patients over here we can't get out." Sherlock and John looked to each other, and John nodded, hoping Sherlock understood the meaning.

"You're on, Doctor Watson," Mycroft's voice crackled in John's ear.

"I'm a doctor. Sherlock, you get Molly, I'll assist here, and we meet by the medic station outside, okay?"

"Agreed... And John, do hurry." John knew his friend was attempting to express concern for his well being. He wanted to respond in kind, but knew that neither of them was out of danger just yet. If he spoke he might reveal the whole plan. All John could muster was a glance over his shoulder, and he thought he recognized reassurance register on Sherlock's face.

John's heart broke. He wasn't man enough to speak a few parting words to his best friend. Even Sherlock, the man John had called a machine, had been considerate enough to deliver "last words" just moments ago. And now John knew he would not have another opportunity.

John followed the nurse into the murky hallway, just out of Sherlock's sight, and then paused long enough to watch as Sherlock made his way to Molly's rescue.

"What now, Mycroft?" John sniffed. Surely it was because of the smoke that tears threatened to spill from his burning eyes.

"Follow the young lady downstairs. We've secured a wing that is, for the moment, safe from the smoke. There you will find five people who are in need of your assistance. The moment you break the airtight seal on the door to the wing, these individuals will be exposed to the smoke. Act swiftly and wisely."

"Five people. You sadist. Who am I looking for?"

"An elderly, immobile man. There will be a male orderly waiting to assist you. Take them first. Then a cancer patient, female, mid-fifties. She's mobile, but the chivalrous thing to do would be to carry her, don't you think? The young lady now accompanying you will need assistance as, by that time she will have lost a substantial amount of blood from that gash on her head..."

"Wait, that's real? You told me these were actors!"

"I said what I had to say to reassure you."

" _What_ have you done? Wait... you only listed four. Who's the fifth?"

"Ah..."

"Mycroft! The fifth person!"

"Seven year old female burn victim."

John reeled back. "Have you lost your mind? A child? I'm taking her first Mycroft."

"No. She's to be taken last. This is simply nonnegotiable."

"But..."

"Need I remind you, failure to comply with the plan..."

"Shut up Mycroft. We're here, I'm going in." John exhaled in frustration, as he and the nurse pushed the doors to the secure wing open. A blast of fresh, cool air caught him off guard, and he breathed deeply, pausing just momentarily. The nurse started to say something, but collapsed from the effects of the smoke and her wound. John pulled her farther into the hallway. In the first patient room, sitting anxiously on the edge of her bed, was the cancer patient. John motioned to her.

"My name is Doctor John Watson. I need your help. This nurse is injured, and I need for someone to keep pressure on this wound until I can get her to a medic. Do you feel strong enough to do that?"

"I... I think I can." John hoisted the nurse onto the woman's bed, and grabbing a towel, showed the woman exactly where to apply the pressure.

"I will be right back." The woman nodded, and John noticed her hands were trembling. "I'm going to kill Mycroft," John huffed under his breath as he headed back to the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him. Just as Mycroft promised, black, acrid smoke was now rolling down the corridor.

“Tsk, temper, John,” Mycroft scolded playfully. John grunted, and held his tongue. Leave it to a Holmes to misread propriety in any given situation. And to underestimate Captain John Watson’s intentions once stated.

John approached the next room over, and thought perhaps this room was unoccupied, until he heard soft whimpering from the far side of the bed. John turned into the room, and sure enough, there was a young girl, both arms, her left leg, and part of her face, wrapped in gauze. John felt nauseated. How could Mycroft expect him to make this poor child wait?

"John? Have you started moving the first patient yet? You're running out of time!"

John sighed, exasperated. He approached the young girl, who cowered away from him. John crouched down to her level, "Sweetheart, my name is Doctor John. I'm going to get you out of here, but I have to go help someone else first. Can you be a brave girl and wait right here for me?"

" _PLEASE!_ " the little girl cried. "Please don't leave me! My daddy left me at the last fire, and didn't come back. You won't come back either!"

John turned his face so the little girl wouldn't see him retch. Yes. He was going to kill Mycroft. John's mind raced. He shrugged off his jacket, and wrapped it around the girl's shoulders. "This is my very favorite jacket. I'm going to leave it here with you, and I promise, I will come back for it... and for you. Can you keep it safe for me?" Through her tears the little girl nodded slightly, and grabbed John's hand tightly.

"Don't forget" the child whispered.

"I won't." John turned and ran from the room, so as not to cry in front of the girl.

Just across the hall stood a male orderly, tapping his foot impatiently. "Took you long enough." Without thought of consequence, John drew back and punched him square on the nose.

"Oops."

"You broke my nose!"

"You're walking away from a hospital fire. I think you'll be okay. Besides, your face was too clean for someone who's been trapped in a burning building. You grab the bedding at his legs, I'll take the shoulders!" John barked. The orderly wiped the tears from his eyes (which John noted were already bruising quite nicely), sniffed his crooked, bleeding nose, and complied with a huff. John wrapped the corners of the bedding at the head of the patient's bed around his hands, and the orderly followed his lead at the other end. The two men heaved the patient up and slowly worked their way to the corridor.

"Ok, Mycroft, where am I going?"

"Turn right out of that wing. Stay true. Approximately one hundred metres to the nearest exit." John felt relieved for the first time. Only one hundred metres. He and the orderly made their way slowly out to the main corridor, which was now completely enshrouded in smoke. John had no option but to take Mycroft's word as true, and they slowly picked their way forward. After what seemed an eternity, John could hear voices outside.

"We're almost there!" he shouted to the orderly. Suddenly John tripped over what had been the threshold of the door. The blast must have blown out the glass panes. John found himself thrust into daylight. He shouted, "Medic! Medic!" and soon his burden was lifted to a gurney, and a medic was applying pressure to the orderly's nose. John turned to duck back into the building when a firm grip clapped down on his arm and spun him around.

"Oh Greg, thank God, you're okay," John replied. "Have you seen Sherlock?"

"Of course he would be here too. No. I have not seen Sherlock.”

A pit formed in John's stomach as he moved to re-enter the building. Where was Sherlock?

"Where do you think you're going?" demanded DI Lestrade.

"Greg, there are more in there. I know where they are. I can get them out." Lestrade had not yet released John's arm, and John was ready to do what needed to be done to break free. He'd already punched an orderly, and threatened the life of Mr. Government himself. Knocking out a detective would just be par for the course today.

"John, get rid of him. You need to hurry. You're running out of time!" Mycroft's unwelcome voice intruded on John's thoughts. Lestrade looked to the fire crews who were just now arriving. What had taken them so long anyway?

Releasing John's arm, Lestrade replied with some reluctance, "Fine. One more trip in. Then I'm sending in the fire crews, and you leave the heroics to them. You hear me? I _will_ have you arrested." John didn't take the time to respond, he sprinted back into the building. Recounting his steps, he stumbled along the wall until he found what he prayed was the door that would lead him to the waiting patients.

"John, you're taking too long. Do you think you can pull out both women at the same time?"

"Both?" John's mind reeled at the thought.

"It's either both at once, or leave one behind. Your choice."

John gritted his teeth. How did he get himself into this? And how did Mycroft expect him to ensure Sherlock's safety with these crazy time restraints?

He fumbled for the doorknob, and stumbled into the room that was rapidly filling with smoke. The patient was struggling to stand, gasping for air, but stand she did. She refused to abandon her post, and she continued to apply pressure to the nurse's wound.

"We have to get you both out of here. Now." John looked around the room, and seeing nothing to assist him with his task, pulled a pillow case from the linens, and soaked it in the sink. "Here, wrap this around your face for a mask. I'm going to crouch down, and you climb on my back." The woman hesitated, so John stepped to her, and helped her tie the mask on. He crouched down, and reluctantly, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hoisted herself up. John was stunned at how light she was. Her illness had not been kind to her. "Okay, hold on. Whatever you do, do _not_ let go!" John lifted the nurse in his arms with a grunt, and charged towards the door.

He had not considered the added effect of the smoke on his own lungs and eyes as he stumbled under the weight of his passengers. More slowly than last time John worked his way toward the exit. He had to pause and shift the weight of the nurse in his arms frequently.

"Are you okay?" whispered the trembling lady clinging to his shoulders. John wanted to respond but could only manage a grunt. This was a mistake. He felt he was getting ready to drop the woman in his arms, and he could feel the other woman's grip beginning to slip. John pressed on as hard as he could, and tripped over the broken threshold. His fall was stopped by the firefighter running into the building. Without a word, the firefighter took the nurse from John's arms, freeing John to swing the other woman up and carry her out to safety. Lestrade was waiting with a medic. As John handed off the woman he fell to his knees.

Air... He needed air. He was so tired… One more... He had to go back one more time.

Lestrade was in his face, "John, there's a medic here. They've got oxygen for you." John shoved the DI away, and sprinted towards the building.

Lestrade raced after him. "John Watson, you are under arrest. Stop now!" Lestrade yelled, followed by a string of curses as John re-entered the building, just out of reach. His mind was foggy, and he knew well his lungs couldn't take much more. He stumbled and crawled to the room of his last patient. Her room was completely filled with the thick smoke, and John could hear the fire crackling nearby.

"I'm here! I'm back!" John coughed. He crawled around the bed to the little girl, who had cocooned herself into his jacket, only her eyes and a shock of blonde hair peeked through the neck of the coat. John scooped her into his arms and his head spun as he stood up. Though wrapped in the jacket, the little girl shivered in his arms.

"John, you're out of time," Mycroft said softly.

"What? No! Please, let me get her to safety. Please, Mycroft."

The voice on the other end of the connection hesitated. "There is a crew out in the main hallway. Hand her to one of those men. He will take her to safety."

"Thank you," John mumbled.

"And in case you were wondering, Sherlock has been spotted out at the medic station with Miss Hooper." 

John sighed with relief.

Mycroft continued, "It appears he has been demonstrating some concern for you. That's sweet. You should send him a trinket, something to remember you by."

"A trinket? Who am I, Mary Poppins? You have lost your mind haven't you?" John stumbled into the main hallway, and collided with one of Mycroft's men, conveniently disguised as a firefighter.

"Mr. Holmes instructed me to carry the girl to safety," the man said abruptly.

"Right. Right," John stammered as he relinquished the girl. He quickly pulled his wallet from his pocket and his watch from his wrist, and handed it to the little girl. "Can you give this to someone for me? Give it to a tall man with dark hair. His name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And tell him I said 'Vatican cameos.' Can you say that? 'Vatican cameos.' He will understand."

The little girl looked at John with tears in her eyes and nodded. "Vat- vatic-an cameos?"

"Good. Very good. Now you take very good care of those things, and you look after my jacket, okay?" John looked to the other man, "Now go. Hurry."

As the man ran towards the exit, John turned to observe the scene behind him. Mycroft's crew had pulled down a section of the ceiling into a heap. There appeared to be a man's body lying at the bottom of the pile.

"Mycroft, what am I looking at? And what is that smell?"

"Accelerant. We have to make sure this corridor is thoroughly destroyed. John Watson, this is where you die." John knew this was the end game, but the reality had not yet struck him.

"Who is it?"

"A John Doe who was set to be buried in a pauper's field. Similar build and body type. We altered your dental records to match him. With the accelerant, there should be nothing left to identify, but we took every precaution just in case."

"What a relief," John hoped his sarcasm was evident.

"Quite. Now, I need you to toss any personal effects into the pile with the body. Any pocket contents, keys, your gun."

"My gun?"

"Especially your gun. What doesn't melt will be easily identifiable, and further confirm your identity. Don't worry, John, you'll be provided a new weapon. I think you will be pleased."

"Great." John reluctantly emptied his pockets and tossed the contents onto the corpse of the other John Watson. He was relieved Mycroft had forced him to drop his phone outside. Certainly Sherlock would retrieve it. And he was glad he had sent his wallet out too. He really liked that wallet. Carefully placing his gun on the pile he stood and backed away as the crew continued arranging ceiling tiles and beams on top of the corpse.

"John, I have a man ready to escort you to the back of the building. There is a cargo bay, with a vehicle backed up to it. Enter the back of the vehicle, and you will be transported to your next destination. You might want to hurry. You have three minutes."

"Three minutes? Bloody hell." Suddenly another man dressed as a firefighter grabbed John by the arm and tugged him down the corridor.

"Uh, Mycroft, the hallway we're headed into is completely engulfed. Is there another way?"

"No John, I'm afraid not."

John and his escort looked at each other, and holding on to each other by the arm, broke into a sprint. The heat was unbearable, and the acrid smoke stole the very breath from John's lungs. As they ran, John could hear the structure creaking around them. "Mycroft, this hallway is about to collapse!" No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a beam came crashing down. John's escort pushed him out of the way, himself being pinned to the floor. "Your man is down, and I can't move the beam!" John shouted as he tried to leverage the other man free.

"Doctor Watson?" the trapped man spoke. "We're so close to the cargo bay. It's straight ahead. Please, go. You have to go."

"No way, I can't leave you here!"

"John, listen to the man. You have less than a minute. You're putting everyone in danger!"

John looked to the young man who had saved his life. "I'm so sorry." The other man nodded.

"Go."

John looked back one more time, and started jogging towards the waiting vehicle.

"Time," crackled Mycroft's voice. John started to sprint, but there was nothing to be done. The blast was one like John had never experienced before. He was thrown into a wall and slid to the floor, the heat from the blast enveloped him.

"John. Are you there?"

"I'm... I'm here." Mentally he assessed himself as he tried to stand, he cried out in pain. "Burns, not too severe. Broken ribs. Dislocated shoulder, the healthy one. Fantastic."

"Can you make it to the cargo bay?"

"Yes." John felt his way along the wall, the flash from the explosion had affected his vision, but that would be temporary. His ears were ringing, at least one eardrum was ruptured, and his equilibrium was off, but if he stayed against the wall he would be fine. He could faintly hear voices, and suddenly, he felt an opening in the wall and tumbled through into the waiting ambulance.

"An ambulance? How appropriate." John collapsed onto the gurney and gladly accepted the oxygen mask from the medic.

"Glad you could join us," one medic spoke up.

"Damn it, Mycroft. Why are you here?" John jumped to his feet, but losing his balance sat down quickly.

"Field work is so unbearable, but I had to ensure the safety of our asset," Mycroft gestured toward John. "Can we move along please? This building is not going to be standing for much longer!"

"Sir the crowd is too thick, I can't pull away from the building!" shouted the driver.

"Lights and sirens then!" The ambulance had just started pulling out, the doors still propped open, when the building released an unearthly moan and began to collapse in on itself. The open ambulance doors seemed to welcome the flying debris towards its passengers. John realized the danger before Mycroft's men did, and he threw himself on top of the elder Holmes brother. The driver finally gained an opening, and the ambulance lurched forward, slamming the doors, providing reprieve from the rush of dust and debris.

John couldn't move. Two men were piled on top of him, but there was something else wrong. "Mycroft... My…cr..." the vehicle spun around him.

"Get him on the gurney!" Mycroft shouted. John's side had been struck by a rather large, rather jagged, section of wooden beam. He would live, but Mycroft had not planned for this extensive recovery. "Well, this does change things a bit." Mycroft pulled out his mobile and appeared to be checking and sending texts.

"You're welcome," John responded dryly as the medics worked frantically to staunch the rapid blood flow from his side. John knew he should have been experiencing extremely high levels of pain, as the medication IV had only just been inserted. He was rapidly going into shock. “Not good. A bit not good,” he mumbled to himself. He squeezed his eyes shut and, drawing on every ounce of training he could recall, fought to regulate his breathing. He had to stay awake, if for no other reason than he really did not trust Mycroft.

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably as his mobile began to ring. "Oh look, it's Sherlock. He must have learned of your fate by now," John thought Mycroft looked gleeful as he answered the phone.

"Sherlock, where are you?" Mycroft demanded.

"As if you don't know. I need you. Now."

"Little brother, I assure you your request is most impossible. With the events of the day, there is no way I can abandon my post now. Is it safe now to assume you have disposed of Moriarty?"

"You could say that..." Sherlock paused. "Mycroft, I need you. John is missing.” Mycroft was motioning to the medics to make less noise. They were going to give everything away.

Mycroft broke his silence. "What happened, Sherlock?"

"He ran into the hospital... he was trying to save a little girl..."

"The fool. Don't I always say, what good does it do to care? If he was so stupid as to..." John thought he could hear Sherlock's disdain as the call was disconnected.

"Well, that was rude!" Mycroft feigned insult.

"Hasn't anyone ever taught you to respect the deceased?" John laughed bitterly. He caught the expression on Mycroft's face. What was that look? Empathy? Regret? When Mycroft realized he was being watched, his features hardened, and he pulled a briefcase from a cubby.

“Unfortunately, I was incorrect. Sherlock appears to currently be in a state of denial. He’s still holding out hope that his brave doctor could have survived that explosion. Hmm. I fear the realization of your untimely demise may actually trigger an emotional response. Interesting, I hadn’t planned on that,” Mycroft mused out loud.

“Sherlock.” John whispered the name. The thought of Sherlock searching for him caused great conflicting emotions. That Sherlock Holmes would care enough about him to search for him, and to know that the consulting detective thought highly enough of his abilities to credit him with escaping the fire, caused John to blush in humility. But his heart broke as he realized that Sherlock, despite exhausting himself and his resources, would never find him there. Mycroft was correct. All too soon there would be an emotional response in one form or another, and it would be all John’s fault.

John looked at Mycroft. Caring little about the sobs that threatened to escape his throat, John groaned, “What have I done?”

Mycroft appeared taken aback. At a loss for words, he hesitated and cleared his throat. Finally, his voice thick with emotion, came his careful answer. “You saved his life.”

The men remained in silent introspection for several moments as the medics worked to stabilize John. The problem with fighting off the shock was that he was now in great physical pain. Honestly, every inch of his body, from head to foot, screamed in agony. But he had never experienced pain like the agony of his heart being torn to shreds as the ambulance hurled him farther and farther from his life, his home, and Sherlock.

Mycroft tapped a short cadence on his briefcase. "John, the one thing Sherlock requested for you, had we followed 'Lazarus' to completion, was that you be provided for. I was to offer to reinstate your military credentials, and offer to assign you to a London medical base. Your stipend was to be supplemented from his own accounts." John drew in a sharp breath. He hadn't even considered the alternate outcome.

"As you can imagine, I can't allow you to remain in London, or England for that matter. Sherlock will already be suspicious when there are no remains to be identified."

"Obviously." John rolled his eyes and wondered if Mycroft even knew his brother at all. There was no conceivable scenario John could imagine where Sherlock would rest until he had all the answers. It was entirely possible Sherlock was in a black cab tailing them at this very moment.

"I'm glad you agree. Of course, we hadn't considered you sustaining, ah, injuries..." Mycroft paused, "For which I do sincerely apologize. And, hmm... yes. I thank you." John nodded, choosing to remain silent, so as not to prolong Mycroft's misery. Maybe he wouldn't punch him just yet.

"The medics have made it clear we ought not wait to have you treated, so we are taking you to the military hospital now. You will be cared for quickly, and privately, with only the most necessary of staff even being aware of your presence. From there you will be airlifted to another military base to receive any further medical care and any rehabilitation. We can arrange to have your sister meet you there if you so choose."

Harry. John had weighed his options heavily. He didn't want her to get caught up in this. If she knew he was alive, what would stop her from trying to contact him? And what would stop Sherlock from monitoring her every movement? "No. She shouldn't know."

"Is there anyone else, John?"

"No one." John was certain he read empathy on Mycroft's face this time. "One question... I'm going to a military base?"

"Right. Calling in a few favors, I got your status returned to active, and based on your prior service and commendations, you were due a promotion. Congratulations, Major Watson."

"Major?" John was stunned. "Mycroft, I..."

Mycroft, not one to linger on sentiment, interrupted, "The new rank affords you more comfortable accommodations, easier access to medical care, an increase financially, and command of a unit once you are recovered."

"I see," John nodded. "And where exactly am I going?"

"There is a rather large operation in Kandahar."

"Afghanistan? Are you kidding me? With the Americans?" The urge to punch Mycroft had returned. "Been there, done that, have the scars to prove it. No thank you."

"It's a NATO center of operations. As far as red tape is concerned, it's a nightmare. We can get you in, count on them to lose the paperwork, and when you're recovered no one will even know you were there."

John grunted. Mycroft was right. Kandahar was an organized man's greatest fear. It was perfect. "And then?"

"This is the part I think you will enjoy. Once you are recovered, I've arranged a special unit. I know you've become accustomed to a certain lifestyle, one of danger and intrigue, in the company of my brother. You will, of course, have command over this unit. You will be stationed as a security detail for the English Consulate in Astana, Kazakhstan..."

"Security detail? Seriously? I thought..."

"Let me finish. You will be responsible for the security of the Consulate, the Ambassador, and his staff. But the unit that I have selected is comprised of specialists. We have a great deal of intelligence that passes through Kazakhstan. I will direct the items that need to be, ah, _dealt with_ immediately, to your attention, and your unit will be dispatched to neutralize the threat. Your operations will be classified at a level higher than even MI6. Does this offer appeal to you, or would you prefer a desk somewhere quiet?"

John could not believe what he was hearing. The assignment was too good to be true. But as compelling as it was, his heart weighed heavy. "I'm honored Mycroft. Of course I will accept. Just... this isn't permanent is it? I will get to come home, right? When Sherlock is finished with Moriarty's network, and his name is cleared, I can come home?"

"John, when has death ever not been permanent?"

"But, I'm not dead!" John shoved the medics aside and sat up. The world tilted around him and his vision went slightly more blurry as he fought to regain composure. "Do you mean to tell me that I agreed to a one way ticket? You may hate me, Mycroft, but that is low, even for you!"

"I cannot make any promises."

"Well I can. When you least expect it, you better be sure I will make my position known to Sherlock."

"And the instant you try, you will be arrested for treason, face court martial, and be thrown into prison for the rest of your life. Do not toy with me. No contact, John. None. He cannot know you are alive. Not until the task at hand is completed, however long that may be."

He was, by all accounts, dead. Yet here he sat, mostly alive (though his body would protest that point), and he could no longer imagine his life without Sherlock Holmes. 

"And what if he connects the dots? What if he figures out that _you_ detonated those bombs... that _you_ killed me?"

"Do you truly believe that my brother is able to outwit me? I so completely pointed the evidence to Moriarty's men, even if you were to contact Sherlock, he wouldn't believe it was truly you. He's not as smart as you believe him to be."

John's anger threatened to spill over at any moment. "When Sherlock is finished, you bring me home," John growled.

Mycroft sighed. "I will do my best. Now, it appears we have arrived. A doctor is waiting to see you immediately. One last thing... in this packet are your credentials, your identification tags, and a bank card with an account already set up for you."

"I suppose my alias is in here too?"

"Ha!" Mycroft's laugh dripped with derision. "Are you aware how common the name John Watson is? When this fact was made known to me, I didn't bother to have your name changed. No one will be the wiser. Just don't go around telling people about that ridiculous middle name! I mean really, John Watson is probably the most mundane name in the history of names! Quite fitting, actually. I..." Mycroft was cut short by John's left hook landing cleanly on his jaw. If John's right shoulder hadn't been dislocated, the blow would have knocked him out. It was a fact John had prided himself on. Despite his left hand being dominant, after he'd been shot, he relied on his right arm for combat. Until now it had never failed him.

"And that was my _bad_ arm. So long, Mycroft." John snatched the packet from the stunned dignitary, shoved his way past the medics, and stumbled through the ambulance doors. The pain was excruciating, and the motion of the punch had caused his wound to bleed heavily, but he would not show Mycroft Holmes weakness. He couldn't stand down now. If he hoped to ever make it home, he had to stick to the plan.

"Okay Sherlock, it's all up to you now," John said under his breath as a team of fatigue clad nurses forced him to a gurney and wheeled him into the surgery.

**Author's Note:**

> All right? Are you all right?


End file.
